


shaking the wings of their terrible youth

by simplyprologue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Future Fic, Shameless Smut, Smug Leaders, War Paint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: There’s something near heretical about fucking the Wanheda.





	shaking the wings of their terrible youth

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Originally written for The100Kinkmeme on LJ and can be read [here](http://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1753.html?thread=114905#t114905).

There’s something near heretical about fucking the Wanheda. After a battle is when her power is at its strongest -- Roan doesn’t know many deaths she was responsible for today, but when he first found her after the battle she was up to her elbows in blood, spitting curse after curse because she had made the decision that some wretched fool would live and that death, in this instance, could fuck right off. So he tends to his own wounds, waiting, if kings deign to wait for anyone, even blood-soaked goddesses of death.  
  
Appearing in his tent like a thunderclap, she wastes no time in stripping off her clothes. The unfortunate thing about bloodlust like this is that a battle necessitates so many layers, and while he’s already down to his pants, she has to be divested of much more. He has no qualms in helping her, if it means he can get his mouth on her tits any quicker.  
  
Heavy handfuls that rest in his palm, he pushes her breasts together. Wanheda’s a beautiful woman, generous curves in her hips and waist, deceptively soft in others. Mouth skating along the top of her cleavage he hefts her up onto the war table. He takes a nipple between his lips, and she hisses, and he sucks at her until the bud is peaked and slippery. Then it’s a game of teeth and teasing, smiling ferally as he bites into the side of her breast and her nails scrape down his back. He loves being savaged by her, the great Wanheda, loves that she’ll let him mark her and bruise her and own her, just for an hour or two. Death bows to no one, and Roan loves to fuck a woman who isn’t preening and calling him sire, hoping that her belly swells with an heir. The Commander of Death calls him by no title, just twists her fingers into his hair and _pulls,_ telling him where she wants him.  
  
To eat pussy right, you have to enjoy getting wet and low.  
  
Roan drops to his knees, scooping his hands under her ass to pull her close to him. Breathes her in, scenting her arousal and sweat and musk. Puts his mouth on her, the flat of his tongue sweeping from her entrance to her clit, drinks her in. She’s not quiet about her pleasure, or gentle about it, twisting her hips up to meet his face and sliding her thighs over his shoulders.  
  
He’s fucking good at this. He knows it, she knows it, and half of this _thing_ between them is that she’ll always fight him, because she wants him to hold her down.  
  
So he does, wrapping his arms around her hips and pinning her. Moaning loud and in the clear, Wanheda arches her back, fisting her hands in her hair. The sound goes straight to his cock, straining against the laces of his pants -- but he wants her wild, first. There’s something to the stoic, dutiful daughter of the Sky People and he respects that, as much as he can respect her when she’s playing the quiet hypocrite. No, he prefers her ruthless and fearless, standing down an entire army by herself or broiling them all alive, the woman who would sacrifice her mother if it meant salvation.  
  
“Goddammit, Roan--”  
  
Laughing against her folds he shoves her down, until her pale body is spread across the map. He’s going to make Wanheda come on top of world, at her rightful fucking place.

Her pussy is swollen, pretty and pink. Easing back, he swirls the tip of his tongue over her clit, then kisses her cunt, pressing his nose into her, the sparse curls covering her mound tickling his face. He eats her out like a man communing with his god, dragging out whimpers and malformed shrieks.  
  
Fingers finding his hair, she pulls. He wants her to pull harder, and rubs the flat of his palm against his erection at the thought.  
  
He suckles her clit into his mouth, until her body breaks against the want of release. But he’s a man who knows what he wants, and so he frees one of his hands from her hips, stiffens his other arm to compensate.  
  
“Please, please, please--”  
  
Roan would be lying if he said he didn’t love to hear her say _please._  
  
Pumping one finger inside of her, then two, he doubles down on his efforts. She’s all over him, and all around him, her thighs smeared with the white clay painted onto his face. Lapping at her greedily, he brings her to the point of climax and holds her there, then draws the swollen bundle of nerves of her clit back into his mouth, curls his fingers inside of her and draws them forwards.  
  
She comes, bucking upwards against his hold, her hands in his hair tightening painfully.  
  
Thighs, soft and pliant and smooth handfuls of their own, clamp down on his ears. Nose pressed into her, he circles the tight ring of muscle at her entrance with his middle finger, either easing her down or keeping her level, and he figures he’ll find out soon enough. She parts her legs, letting them hang over the sides of the table, and he looks smugly (not fondly, not affectionately, he’s not the kind of man who can afford those things) at the smudges of white and grey and black at her center. His, for a moment, and only for a moment -- those who have tried to fuck Wanheda for keeps have ended up dead, some by her own hand if the stories are true.  
  
There’s no taming death, just the small surrender of the _petite mort._  
  
Roan lets her conquer him next, leaving bloody hand prints on his chest as she rides him on the bed of furs on the floor of the tent, the grip of her wet cunt on his cock rendering his senses forfeit.  
  
When he comes, slamming her hips down onto his, he says her name. For all that he needs to be reminded that he’s alive, Wanheda needs to be reminded that she’s a woman.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
